


After Brandon

by Realsupergirl



Category: The Wire
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 10:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15047057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Realsupergirl/pseuds/Realsupergirl
Summary: Omar Little runs into Bill Rawls at a gay bar, shortly after Brandon was murdered





	After Brandon

After Brandon

Omar never goes to this bar. Bars really aren’t his thing, truthfully, and gay bars are even less his thing. For one thing, he doesn’t drink, and for another it’s really hard to keep track of where everybody is and who’s around in a crowded room where people don’t sit still.  
Of course, he met Brandon in a bar. So there’s that. Maybe that’s why he’s here tonight. It’s been six months since he died, since he was murdered. It hasn’t really gotten much easier, but at the same time, life goes on. That’s the way it’s always been for Omar.  
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” a voice asks. Omar turns his head toward the voice. There’s an old white guy smirking at him, looking like he wants to eat him on a ham sandwich or something.  
“Don’t think so, man.”  
“I’m sure I do. I recognize your scar,” the old guy says. His bald head gleams under the lights from the dance floor. Omar can tell he’s lying. It doesn’t even seem hard to read this guy. He clearly doesn’t lie all that often; he’s not very good at it.  
“I’m a famous guy, I guess,” Omar says.  
“You’re a handsome guy, anyway,” the man says.  
This takes Omar by surprise. He’s starting to figure this guy to be police, maybe undercover or some shit. It was fine with him, he respected the police – after all, they’re part of the game too. But maybe he’s not police – maybe he’s just a horny old white guy.  
“No doubt,” is all Omar says. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it up.  
“Can I buy you a drink?” the man asks. “I’m Bill. Bill Rawls.”  
Omar stares at him. “Ain’t you even afraid someone will find out you’re here, using your real name like that?” If he is police, he surely isn’t out. If he’s not police, he’ll probably be offended at Omar thinking he’s not out.  
“How do you know that’s my real name?” Bill asks, not missing a beat.  
“Omar knows, man. Omar knows.” He smiles a little to himself. Proof positive- he’s police. Well, Omar’s worked with police before. Maybe this guy can be helpful.  
“Omar, huh?” Bill asks.  
“If you say so,” Omar says. Yeah, this guy clearly didn’t know him after all. If he really recognized him – and his scar was sort of famous – he would have put it together when he said his name. So it was just a line. Not the first time, won’t be the last.  
“So, Omar,” Bill says, “Can I buy you a drink?”  
“Don’t drink,” Omar takes a long drag off his cigarette.  
“Well, I’d ask you to dance, but I don’t dance,” Bill laughs.  
“Don’t dance neither,” Omar says.  
“You don’t drink, you don’t dance, what the hell are you doing in a gay dance club, numbnuts?” Bill asks. He doesn’t actually sound angry, but more like he was amused.  
“Ain’t nothing you gotta worry about,” Omar says.  
He surveys the club, half-hoping to see Brandon out on the dance floor, just like he did that night three years ago. Ain’t no one even out there half as pretty as Brandon was, he thinks. He takes another long drag off his cigarette. Maybe it’s time to get out of Baltimore for awhile.  
“Bet that hurt when you got that scar,” Bill says softly, leaning in about an inch away from his face. But he doesn’t touch Omar. He knows better than that, Omar thinks. Even though he’s pretty sure this guy is a higher up cop, ain’t been on the streets in a decade or so, he knows better still. Omar touches his left pocket instinctively, and feels the outline of his switchblade.  
“Oh indeed,” is all Omar says, but he’s ready. He doesn’t really know what this guy Bill’s game is. Is he just a cop out looking to score, or is he a cop on a case? Omar can’t tell. Either way, Omay could play along. For a little while. Bill’s might just be here as a citizen, and Omar doesn’t usually deal with citizens. Citizens live in suburbs and pay their taxes and frown on criminal activity. They donate money to homeless shelters and programs to help get kids out of gangs, but they ain’t never been near a gang or a homeless person, not if they can help it. They live in a different world from him. Omar might be stealing from criminals and thugs, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a criminal himself. It was all part of the game.  
Also, this guy had a shifty look in his eyes. His shirt was buttoned up too high, like maybe he had a wire on him or something. He’s not just a citizen, he’s definitely a cop. Something told Omar, don’t trust this guy, he’ll fuck you up, and not in a good way. And Omar has survived listening to that voice.  
“I’m hungry. You want to get some pancakes or seomthing? There’s a diner right around the corner,” Bill says.  
Omar looks at him, intrigued. Free food is free food and all, and Omar knows that diner well. He can get out of there through the kitchen, in a jam. Always know your exits, that’s one of Omar’s rules. He does his research. He wouldn’t go many places with this guy, but he’ll let him buy him pancakes.  
“All right then,” Omar says. “You buyin’.”  
“Sure thing,” Bill says.  
“I ain’t promising to go home with you,” Omar says. Really, he isn’t thinking about going home with him at all, but he might as well give this guy some hope.  
Bill slides off his bar stool and makes his way through the crowd and out the door. He waves at the bouncer standing outside and Omar nods at him and shrugs when he makes a look as if to say you’re leaving with him? Do you need me to follow? Omar shakes his head at him and waves him off. Terrance is good people. He’s worked this bar for years.  
“You walking five feet behind me for a reason?” Bill asks, stopping to wait for Omar to catch up.  
“Omar likes to let other people lead.”  
“Oh, I doubt that,” Bill smirks again.  
“Omar ain’t going home with you, old man. You said pancakes. That’s all this is about.” Once again his hand reaches to his pocket instinctively. This time, Bill notices and his eyes travel down to his pants. He nods affirmatively at Omar.  
“Fair enough. Pancakes it is,” Bill says.  
They get to the diner in a few minutes, and there’s hardly anyone there. It’s too early for the after bar and club rush, too late for the citizens and the teenagers to be there. Omar slides into a booth near the back by the kitchen, with his back facing the corner so he can view the whole restaurant. Bill slides in and sits sideways, so he can do the same thing.  
“You police?” Omar asks.  
The waitress comes over and stares at them expectantly, not even saying anything. Omar nods at her and smiles. She’s worked here for years, always saying she’s gonna leave her husband and move to Chicago. She ain’t going anywhere.  
“I want a coffee. You?” Bill asks, gesturing to Omar, who nods. “And some chocolate chip flapjacks. Short stack. You know what you want?” The waitress wordlessly pours coffee into Bill and Omar’s mugs, which are permanently stained from all the cups of coffee they’ve held before.  
“I’ll have blueberry pancakes, short stack, and a side of scrapple,” Omar says.  
The waitress nods, writes all this down, and walks away wordlessly.  
“Scrapple, huh?” Bill asks. “I’ve lived in Baltimore my whole life and I never understood why people eat that stuff.”  
Omar just stares at him, waiting.  
“I didn’t peg you for a blueberry man. Interesting,” Bill laughs.  
Still Omar just stares, patiently.  
“Yeah, all right, I’m police,” Bill says. “How’d you know?”  
“You out to the rest of the force?”  
Bill chuckles. “We’re on a don’t ask, don’t tell policy. They don’t ask cause they don’t really want to know, and I don’t tell cause I don’t really want them to know. But it’s not a big secret either. How about you? Are you out?”  
“Everyone know about Omar, man,” Omar says.  
“Is that so?” Bill asks, leaning in. “And how did you get so famous?”  
Omar shrugs. “It’s just Baltimore, is all.”  
“Yeah, it doesn’t take much to be famous in Baltimore, does it? We’re kind of a pissant town, huh?” Bill asks.  
“Ain’t never lived nowhere else, “ Omar says.  
The waitress slides two plates ot pancakes across the slick diner table, and then takes the small plate of scrapple from the busboy standing behind her and places it in front of Omar.  
“Me either,” Bill says, a mouth full of pancake. “You west side?”  
“Born and raised,” Omar says. “My grandmama raised me; still lives there in her little rowhouse.”  
“Towson,” Bill says.  
“Figured that,” Omar says.  
“Yeah, Towson boys got it all over them, I guess.”  
They eat their pancakes without talking much. Omar still can’t really figure out what Bill’s agenda is, what his deal is. Everyone’s got an agenda, and Omar’s one of the best at figuring out quick what anyone’s is. He kind of liked the mystery, trying to unravel it, and he wasn’t feeling particularly worried. The longer he sat here with Bill, the more he rememered how easy it is to maneuver around citizens, even citizens who happened to be police.  
“It’s lonely at top,” Bill says, finally.  
“Yeah, no doubt, “ Omar says.  
“Hard to find anyone who can match you,” Bill continues.  
Omar stops eating, studies Bill. He was just telling that to Butchie the other day. Brandon was the first guy he ever met who seemed like he could actually match Omar. He was fierce and tough, but he had a code. He had good morals. If those Barksdale players had known that, would they have spared him? Probably not. All they saw when they looked at Omar, Brandon, Bill, anyone else from that bar down the street was a faggot.  
“Yeah, it is,” Omar says at last.  
“I had a husband once,” Bill says.  
“You married? I didn’t think that we could do that shit,” Omar asks.  
“You know what I mean,” Bill rolls his eyes.  
“Yeah,” Omar nods.  
“We were together ten years. He was a cop. Out in Washington D.C. I thought I finally met my match, finally met someone who could stick it out with me, who understood me.”  
“He cheat on you?” Omar stabbed a piece of scrapple with a fork and took a bite out of it. It was greasy but delicious.  
“Worse,” Bill says, “He told me he was quitting police and going to law school.”  
Omar laughs out loud at that. He did not see that one coming, and Omar saw most things coming.  
“Can you imagine? Lawyer? I knew that was the beginning of the end.”  
Omar takes another bite, but then puts the half eaten remains back on his plate, still speared by the fork. He felt a little queasy. He hadn’t had meat in about a month and a half, not out of any particular reason, but just cause. It wasn’t money either. There were just a limited number of places Omar felt safe doing his shopping, and living in abandoned and foreclosed homes meant he didn’t have much access to working stoves and such.  
“I mean, police are always on the lookout, always looking beneath the surface,” Bill was continuing to explain himself, “But lawyers? They’re just looking for excuses. He’d gone soft on me. I knew it could never work.”  
“Thanks for the food, man,” Omar starts to slide out of the booth.  
“Just like that? You’re leaving?” Bill looked surprised.  
“Look man, I told you, I ain’t going home with you,” Omar said.  
“And I said, I don’t want that,” Bill said, “Come on man, stay a little while longer, It’s been six months since I went out, six months since I did anything but goddamn police work, I could use the company.”  
“Why you ain’t dated anyone else?” Omar asked.  
“I don’t know. Why aren’t you dating since you lost whoever you lost?”  
“What are you talking about?” Omar started to slide out again. How the hell did he know that? Was he following him?  
“I’m not psychic, numbnuts,” Bill laughed. “I just can tell. You look sad, you look like your dog died. That rarely means your dog died if you’re a guy. I took a guess. You confirmed it.”  
“Brandon was special, man,” Omar said. “And they took him away. Come to think of it, why ain’t the police looking into that? Brother was murdered, left to die like a dog, and they ain’t arrested no one yet?”  
“You want me to look into it?” Bill asked. “Tell me his name. I’ll find out who’s working the case.”  
“It ain’t gonna bring him back,” Omar said.  
“No, it isn’t.”  
“We’re a sad pair, ain’t we?” Omar asked.  
“They know, you know,” Bill said.  
“What?”  
“The police in my unit. They know about Brandon, they know about you, they know why they did it. They’re looking into it, but you don’t exactly make it easy for them to solve the case, you know. You gotta back off and let them do their work.”  
They sat, not saying anything. This time, Omar wanted to get up and leave, but he didn’t. Bill was smarter than he looked. He still wasn’t worried, but it made him uncomfortable. And Omar had no intentions of backing off his revenge plans. The Barksdales gotta pay, that was the only fair thing. Brandon deserved that much.  
“It’s different for us, you know,” Bill stops him with a hand on his wrist. Omar stares down at the place where Bill is touching him, and Bill pulls his hand away immediately.  
“I’m just saying. It’s different for us faggots. Women want their husbands to take a safe, desk job. Men want their husbands to be be able to match them.”  
“You right, man, You right.” Omar nods at him.  
“Stay safe out there. You and me, we’re not all that different. You’d be pretty good police, in fact, “Bill said.  
“I probably would be. I probably would be,” Omar said. “Peace out.”  
It was time to go. This guy was getting too close to things inside his heart. Whether it was too soon after Brandon, or because he was police, or both, this guy had to go. Not like that. But he had to go.


End file.
